


Stillness

by my_deer_friend



Series: My Deer Kinktober 2020 [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blow Jobs, Choking, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26854246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_deer_friend/pseuds/my_deer_friend
Summary: The silence of the house is nothing at all like the electric quiet of the athenaeum, now, finally, that his Alexander is kneeling on the carpet before him - naked, blindfolded and tense, his lips parted and his hands gripping to the soft flesh of his inner thighs. Sometimes Henry enjoys designing elaborate games, but tonight - after so many months - the simplicity of this is even better.He hasn’t even ordered this - it’s all Alexander’s doing - and it’s perfect.---(Prompt 5 - daddy kink, Alex/Henry)
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Henry Laurens (1723-1792), Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: My Deer Kinktober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947265
Comments: 24
Kudos: 25





	Stillness

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by my own brain.
> 
> This takes place in the [Hold My Tongue](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873909) verse, a month or two before part 4.

The house is too quiet without his boys there. 

Henry tries not to notice it. But the days before Jack and Alexander come home are difficult, because the silence echoes mockingly around him. The other children are there, of course, and they make a comfortable, domestic background hum. But they are wary of him, as they should be, and they recede when he passes, and they do not chase away the profoundest parts of the quiet. 

His boys are different. 

When Jack and Alexander flood in, they bring brightness and noise and disarray to the orderly halls, and they don’t vanish in his wake. For a brief moment, the space comes alive again. Then the silence floods in more thickly again after they have left; the lingering memory of sound rings in his ears. 

Henry shakes his head and dismisses the thought _._ The hollow silence of the house is nothing at all like the electric quiet of the athenaeum, now, finally, that his Alexander is kneeling on the carpet before him - naked, blindfolded and tense, his shaft perfectly hard, his lips parted and his hands gripping to the soft flesh of his inner thighs. Sometimes Henry enjoys designing elaborate games, but tonight - after so many months - the simplicity of this is even better.

He hasn’t even ordered this - it’s all Alexander’s doing - and it’s perfect.

Henry rarely needs to reveal how eager he truly is because Alexander’s impatience wins out. He doesn’t think he’ll ever completely train that out of him, and it suits him fine; little acts of disobedience allow him to sate his need for taking a firm hand. And, oh, he has been anticipating the miracle of his darling boy’s mouth. 

Henry had planned to wait until tomorrow, but when he sees his Alexander’s restlessness at dinner - the lip bitten raw, the furtive glances, the barely touched food - he suspects he is going to find his boy waiting for him tonight. Of course, Henry has no intention of refusing this early gift, crowned in a bow fashioned from one of his own ties. He has no idea how Alexander got hold of it, but it is an elegant touch - clever boy, to show that he knows who he belongs to, because Alexander is breaking a rule by initiating this encounter. 

Yet the fact that he is supplicating himself, binding his eyes - which he hates, because it takes away his ability to brace himself against the more sudden violations, and which Henry loves, because it makes Alexander all the more helpless and responsive - confirms to Henry that he’s not acting out of defiance, but from desperation. Alexander calls it his _itch,_ and although Henry doesn’t have a better name for it, he understands that Alexander needs to give up all of his control to soothe it. 

So, as hungry as Henry is to defile his beautiful boy, he decides to delay a little longer to show that he is now in charge of this situation. It will make the prize all the sweeter if he draws out the debasement Alexander craves. It is late, and Jack should already be asleep, so they can take their time. Since he might only lay hands on Alexander a few times this week before he must see him off again, he needs to make the moments count - especially moments like these, where Alexander’s genuine desperation radiates off him like heat off a fire.

Henry can wear his mask a little more lightly with Alexander’s eyes covered; just his voice, rather than his posture or expression, will suffice for now.

“Imagine my surprise,” Henry scoffs, the first words he’s spoken since he entered the room and started drinking in this delicious sight several minutes ago. “To come in here for a moment of quiet reading, only to discover such an obscene display.”

Alexander startles a little at the sound of his voice, but remains still otherwise. He isn’t fooled; after all, their eyes did briefly meet at dinner, and Henry did not dismiss the silent plea Alexander made. That’s all right. Henry has many more buttons he can push. 

He walks up close behind Alexander and crouches down, so that he can murmur directly into his ear. An inch or two closer and they would be touching. Close enough to smell the anxious sweat on the back of Alexander’s neck. 

“The door wasn’t even locked, Alexander. What if someone else had come in and seen you, so desperate to have your mouth filled up, and your vulgar _thing_ hard just from the anticipation of it?”

This starts a flush on Alexander’s neck. That’s better. If Henry wasn’t so wary of being seen himself, he would devise a way to sate his boy’s apparent desire for being publicly exposed. 

Hmm. He must give it some thought.

The soft expanse of delicate skin, just inches away, is almost magnetic. Henry craves to touch, but Alexander craves to be touched even more, and it will not do to reward him so soon. So Henry stretches back up into a stand and steps away. He wanders over to one of the shelves and retrieves a volume, doesn’t even check the spine.

“You are presumptuous, boy,” he says, in his best dismissive tone. “I didn’t summon you. What makes you think I even want to make use of you tonight?”

There is an instant flicker of doubt, plainly apparent in the way Alexander’s mouth pulls down into a frown. Henry almost laughs at how easily he can disconcert his flustered boy, who, after all, is only trying to please him. And it’s an absurd thing to say, because when does he not want Alexander? 

Alexander almost speaks, but Henry sees his willpower win out, and he remains silent. Good boy.

But Henry is in the mood to break Alexander’s spirit quickly tonight, so he extends the fiction by walking back past him to the door, opening it, and then closing it firmly. He stays in the room, but silently now, and he sees the battle that Alexander wages with himself in all the lines of his back and shoulders - unsure if Henry is still there and, regardless of that, of what he should do.

Patience wins. He remains on the floor, and he inches his knees further apart. It’s a clever gambit to account for the possibility that Henry is still in the room, and it works, because seeing those delicate thighs spread open so vulnerably stirs him at once. That beautiful contradiction between wanting to rip his stubborn boy to pieces, and hold his sweet Alexander safely against all the evils of the world.

Alexander is less clever when he permits his lips to fall closed; it takes just a moment for him to catch himself and fling his jaw open again, but a frisson of fear tenses the muscles in his arms. 

That, definitely, is not allowed.

This alone is excuse enough for Henry - and he does always need the excuse, however meager, which is why he invents these impossible rules. He walks, as silently as he can, back to his favourite spot behind his boy. With his eyes covered, Alexander’s hearing is more acute, and Henry hears his startled inhale just a moment before he strikes.

There is no sweeter power in the world than the flush he feels when he puts his hand around Alexander’s throat. 

He never squeezes hard, because just the touch is enough to elicit the breathtaking reaction that he seeks - the sudden thudding of the delicate vein under his thumb, the heavy press against his palm as Alexander swallows, the involuntary shiver, and then, most wonderfully, the way Alexander masters himself and tilts his chin up and leans into the touch just a little to show his complete submission.

His sweet boy puts all of his trust in him, and Henry does not take that lightly. He’s worked hard to earn it.

“I don’t need to catalogue your misdeeds, do I, Alexander?” he murmurs, more lustful than dangerous.

Alexander makes a little _no_ sound in response. In fact, he presses his throat forward even more firmly, and shifts his knees even wider. Inviting punishment.

Oh, he _is_ clever, tempting Henry into inflicting just the right sort of distress. It’s working. 

Alexander never hides his vulnerability, as though he knows his physical defencelessness renders him all the more beautiful. Henry can see how these things shame him - to be naked and lewdly exposed, to be spread or pulled tight, to have his vision darkened and his defences stripped, to be pressed and squeezed and _hurt_ without the means to put a stop to it - but he does not shy from it. Nor does Henry shy from inflicting this humiliation and discomfort. The helpless whimpers Alexander makes when he is manhandled to the point of desperation are the most erotic sounds that Henry has ever heard. 

He wants to hear them now.

They will get there. Patience.

He yearns to let loose and debauch his boy, to cover him in sweat and tears and semen, to find the edge of what he can tolerate tonight, and balance him on it, and then tip him over. Nothing enlivens him like the moment when his tough, stubborn Alexander finally cracks and starts to beg for relief. He has become harder to break over time, but because he will always have more patience, Henry never fails to achieve it - and then he no longer needs to resist the urge to stopper that pleading mouth with his member and to spill hotly into Alexander’s mouth. 

They have time. He should build slowly.

Besides, Henry also enjoys the opportunity to look, and to touch - especially when Alexander is blindfolded - because he can drop some of his pretended detachment. So when he kneels down and starts to trace his fingers over his boy’s precious body, he allows himself to smile. Alexander is practically vibrating with need, panting with it, which must mean that he has been suffering badly from his itch. It’s laughably easy to nudge him close to the point of pleading and then drag him back again. He struggles not to laugh fondly when his fingertips near Alexander’s most sensitive places and feels his boy twitching forward, as though he’s trying to ask for more, as though he fears Henry might not know how frenzied he is. It’s almost childish. 

Henry uses the touches to ground himself, and to reacquaint himself with this familiar territory. He’s a little worried at the ridges along Alexander’s rib cage; he must not be eating, which must mean he is stressed, though that’s hardly surprising given his ambitious career and his imminent wedding. There’s a bruise on his knee - clumsy boy, always knocking into things - and he’s paler than before, another testament to being holed up indoors.

But he’s still as responsive as always, trembling away, and just to prove it, Henry switches his gentle caress to a bruising grip just at the top of that tender thigh.

Alexander’s breathless whimpers knock loose a trail of saliva that oozes out of the corner of his lips. He’s too disciplined to swallow these days, so Henry gleefully compounds his misery by swiping his thumb up through it and back into Alexander’s mouth. He strokes across those trembling lips - a poor substitute for the kiss he would prefer - and Alexander opens his mouth a little wider in silent offering.

Oh, how did Henry ever get so lucky? 

Though perhaps luck is not the right word, given how he has allowed Alexander to doom him. Because doomed he is, in defiance of every lick of good sense and every wall he put around his heart when Ellie died. 

It was never meant to become _this._

From the moment Henry first set eyes on him, he saw the broken thing in Alexander and recognised it as an echo of the broken thing in Jack - the thing that _Henry_ broke, without knowing he’d done it at the time, by being aloof and domineering, by trying to toughen up his eldest son when what he really needed was kindness instead, and by allowing himself to deny in Jack the nature he has always denied in himself. It’s the look that a boy can have only if he has grown up too fast, weed-like and undirected, rather than in the carefully tilled soil of his father’s attention.

He _also_ saw the startling eyes and the pouting lips, but those were just fortunate additions to the flame that drew him in. And when he takes hold of Alexander’s face that first time and sees his wordless plea to be used, to be useful, to be unmanned and debased and then praised for it, Henry knows at once that he is right. 

Alexander has all the hallmarks of a boy discarded by his father. But what is it about that, about Alexander’s fragility and earnestness, that has lured Henry to step into this vacancy? To desire his son’s lover is bad enough; to desire him because he’s an echo of that son--

Worse. More delicious.

Alexander looks just as inviting as he always does, tonight, in a mirror of their first encounter. Henry is still touching his raw lips, pinching and pulling just at the edge of discomfort, but he changes tack without preamble and slides two fingers past them and into the heat of the waiting mouth. Alexander flinches a little to feel the press against his tongue, since he cannot see and therefore anticipate this, but he pulls his shoulders back obediently and submits.

Oh, good boy, sweet beautiful boy, so entirely at Henry’s mercy. So why does Henry feel like the one who’s been ensnared? 

It’s madness to think that he can or should play at being Alexander’s father. He has never quite admitted to himself why taking on this role requires him to stick his cock into the fracture he sees in this broken boy, broken in the way he broke Jack. Perhaps because it is an absence only a father can fill - so he must take on this role in order to be permitted to fill it. Perhaps it’s because he can do it to this boy in a way that would be nothing but horrifying if it were Jack instead. He has other ways to repair things with his own son.

But to think he can mend Alexander by plugging the wounds left by abandonment and dismissal with his cock... surely that’s a special kind of delusion. Not least because when he withdraws again - leaving only the faint red marks that disappear by sunrise, and the washable traces of his semen on his boy’s lips or chin or buttocks, he risks breaking that crack open even wider. To use this boy and then to walk away - is this not an echo of abandonment played over and over? Is this why Henry always returns for more, to prove that the temporary departure is not the same as a permanent dismissal?

It feels like a dangerous line to walk.

And yet, he indulges himself.

To assuage his discomfort at the perverse fatherly bond he has manufactured, he has tried to teach Alexander things to buttress his weaknesses and prevent these cracks from widening - chief among them patience and fortitude, but also, paradoxically, the ability to trust. The lessons have stuck. His boy has lost none of his eager sweetness, but he seems to have learned that Henry will always reward him if he allows himself to surrender to this process. Henry has resolved never to give Alexander cause to doubt the safe contours of their physical intimacy.

He reaches up, now, and tangles a hand in Alexander’s loose hair. Alexander has learned to keep it like this, for him, without Henry ever having to give the command. It makes him look younger, more innocent, and all the better for debauching. The illusion does not stop Henry from delighting in the frantic open-mouthed gurgle Alexander makes when he tugs down on it hard. His boy must like this kind pain as much as Henry enjoys wringing these cries out of him, if the way his cock twitches is any indication.

As magnificent as this is, Henry wants to see more.

He would usually leave the blindfold in place through an encounter like this, but it’s been too long since he’s properly looked into those fathomless, pleading eyes. And Henry finds Alexander easier to read - and therefore easier to torment or tame - when he can see the shifting expressions there.

He schools his expression into a caricature of sternness and reaches for the tie that is blindfolding Alexander. He tugs it down. 

Alexander flinches, and Henry sees now that he looks frantic, but not in the clean, lust-mad way Henry wants him to be. Ah. His poor boy must be more distressed than he thought. He needs to ramp up.

“You’re not getting off easy, boy, for forcing me to waste my reading time indulging your pathetic needs,” Henry says mockingly. He slips the tie down to Alexander’s tautly strung neck and tightens it just enough that there is a constant nagging pressure there. Alexander sighs through his widely spread lips, and his shoulders ease just a fraction.

“Hands behind your back,” he orders.

Alexander complies at once.

Henry reaches for the dangling end of the tie and presses it into one of Alexander’s hands. “Hold on tightly to that.”

He sees the flicker of anticipation in Alexander’s eyes when he takes hold, surrender chasing out some of the anxiety. Henry releases his hair and Alexander’s head shifts forward, and he chokes a little when he feels the tie constrict against his throat. The mixture of dread and arousal in his eyes is entirely sinful.

“I know how excellent you are at allowing your throat to be filled,” Henry says, a little thrill at the thought darting to his swelling cock, “So this should give you more of a challenge.”

Alexander swallows heavily. The tightness around his eyes eases a little more. Good. His boy needs this, and Henry happy to provide it.

He indulges himself with another appraising, possessive look at the exposed boy in front of him, and it is dark enough that he can risk it without Alexander glimpsing anything Henry does not want to reveal.

Because, for all his talk of trust, he knows he is betraying his boy in a different, unspeakable way. 

Henry has been very careful to paint himself in flat colours; a silhouette of a father figure that Alexander can colour in with his own imagination. It has always been his design that Alexander should not _know_ him. Because that would risk to reveal the inconvenient affections he harbours beyond his simple physical desires, or his pretense at paternal care.

Every time he touches Alexander, his chest tightens a little more, trapping the feeling he cannot name more deeply. Alexander is a bad habit he knows will destroy him, given enough time. He’s too old for this kind of madness.

He is willing to suffer the consequences, himself, because he is a sentimental fool, and Ellie was always right about that. But he knows that Alexander doesn’t need or want _that_ from him - of course not, he is utterly devoted to Jack, and they are separated by three decades and endless irreconcilable differences - and so Henry boxes it away for all of their sakes. 

Ellie would have laughed at him, to see him so absorbed in this firecracker boy. She was the only one he ever told the secret of his confused proclivities to, when their union was already so far beyond doubt, so tangled in the webs of publicity and children and her fragile health that it could not break under this new weight. She was kind about it, even though he had no right to expect that.

He draws lines to make it easier to keep these things separate with Alexander. The hardest one of all is that he never permits himself to kiss, because kisses are sentiment and connection, and therefore dangerously revelatory. But when the urge becomes too strong, he finds other reasons to put his lips against his boy’s hair or his tender neck; usually, to whisper something humiliating directly into his flesh, or to breathe hot air that sends goosebumps racing along his skin.

And he never permits himself genuinely tender smiles that Alexander could see, or soft touches other than the ones designed to tease and arouse. He never stays afterwards. Never takes or gives hugs. Never tucks his sweet boy in when he’s exhausted from the abuses he’s endured beautifully for hours at a time. 

But he has spent many long, quiet evenings wondering what his boy thinks of him, of this. He hopes that this is purely transactional for Alexander - little doses of sexual perversion and paternal pantomime to meet his needs and steady his nerves.

And Henry wastes some of those evenings looking into James Hamilton, too. He wants to know what sort of man would have been foolish enough to discard a boy as luminous as his Alexander.

It does not take much digging, especially with the machinery of the federal administration at his disposal. James paints a sorry picture of an itinerant scoundrel, the worst kind of absentee father because he refuses to cut his ties completely. He has few of the markers of any kind of fortune or stability; a few run-ins with the law for petty white-collar misdemeanours; and little else to his name. Henry discovers the half-brother, too, not much better off. 

Perhaps it’s for the best, then, that Alexander has escaped such a mediocre origin, because Henry knows how tightly family can tether. Whatever Jack may fault him for - and yes, Henry admits that Jack is not completely wrong to harbour grudges - at least Henry always provided him with the basic needs of home and hearth. 

He can give a little of that to Alexander now, too.

He unzips his fly.

Henry steps forward between Alexander’s widely spread legs - his hips must be aching, poor thing - and runs a finger along the taut underside of his jaw. His face is tilted back, so Alexander cannot quite see the approaching shaft, but another trickle of saliva escapes his mouth, and this - this absolutely base humiliation - makes Henry growl audibly and slide his cock into that heavenly wetness.

He might have been more careful, long ago, but now he does not hesitate to bury himself all the way. And, yes, his trick with the tie works. It puts Alexander’s head at an unfavourable angle and constricts the passage just enough that when Henry’s cock presses suddenly against the back of his mouth, Alexander chokes frantically. Henry pushes further in regardless, and sees the momentary alarm in Alexander’s eyes as the sudden lack of air, and he feels the throat pulse tightly around him as Alexander retches and tries to swallow.

Ah, this is perfect.

Wetness springs into Alexander’s eyes, but he narrows his brow and endures this abuse as he tries vainly to get his gag reflex under control. 

He just can’t seem to manage it. He trembles violently and chokes, chokes, chokes - but he does not pull away. His Alexander has a will of steel.

He wants to say, _cry for me, sweetheart_ , but that sounds far too tender, so he settles for, “Oh, that’s my good boy.” But he gets what he wants anyway. The shimmer in Alexander’s eyes resolves into tears that spill hotly down his cheeks.

And that’s the paradox - Alexander delights just as much in this meager praise as he does in the most elaborate humiliations. He’s had so little of this affirming affection that he seeks it here, at the tip of Henry’s cock, and gobbles both up with equal greed.

At these simple words, Alexander actually pushes forward, impaling himself further, and produces an obscene gurgling noise as he chokes again, more violently. Those eyes stare up at him, begging for abuse, but pleading even more for affirmation.

“I’m proud of how well you’re atoning for your disobedience,” Henry says, years of practice keeping his voice steady. He pulls out a little, then rams back in, and sets off another helpless spasm.

And he does feel so, so proud of his sensitive, earnest, fragile boy. Alexander is all of these things, no matter what other masks he might show the world, and Henry must be one of just a few people who get to see the real Alexander bare-faced and stripped of pretense. 

So he says it again, more earnest, less acted. “I am proud of you, Alexander.”

And, dear lord, the contrast between the way Alexander’s lips are stretched obscenely around him, the look of complete trust and yearning, then the way Alexander moans in pleasure at these words-- 

Henry unleashes his hips and thrusts roughly forward all at once. Alexander's distressed sounds spur him on, and bring him to the brink far too quickly. At the moment before his climax, he pulls out all the way and takes himself in hand, and two strokes later he is streaking his release all over Alexander’s swollen lips and red cheeks and onto the tongue he has stuck out just for this purpose.

What a sight. If only he could take a photograph.

Henry gathers himself quickly, because _his_ work is not done.

“Stand,” he commands.

Alexander lurches to his feet, and not for a second does he release the tie from his grip or close his leaking lips. The semen starts to flow thickly down his cheeks and chin. His legs are trembling violently, but Henry knows Alexander can probably manage to stay upright - and if not, well, Henry’s here to catch him. 

Henry wraps his dry fingers around Alexander’s burning shaft, but keeps his grip loose and unsatisfying.

“Well, get to it, boy,” he says gruffly. “Don’t make me do all the work.”

Alexander understands, and he draws back his hips shakily and then pushes forward, sliding his cock into Henry’s hand. His face burns red at once at how humiliating this movement is. He moans pathetically, and tries again a few times, but no matter how he angles it, he can’t get the friction he needs.

“Come on, Alexander,” Henry says in mock exasperation, masking his aching fondness at how earnestly his boy is trying. “You were wanton enough to come here, but now even a hand on you is not enough to finish you off?”

Alexander whines more desperately, thrusts more erratically. He’s crying, again.

Henry sneers and loosens his grip even further. “Pathetic.”

This denial, finally, is enough. Alexander cannot help himself any more. “Please, sir!” he croaks, voice rough and broken, lips red and wet.

“Please what?”

“Sir, please--” Alexander stops, and Henry knows exactly what he is struggling to ask for, because they both know Henry will choose to misinterpret the request. Alexander breaks and gives in. “Please, a little harder.”

So of course Henry squeezes down in a punishing grip that makes Alexander choke in a different way, and then to sob frantically and try to pull away, only to find himself trapped - but, yes, this is the wildness he has been trying to instil, the pure animal desperation rather than whatever darkness plagues his boy. He unclenches just a fraction, then pumps back and forth a few times, and that’s all it takes for his dear boy to yelp and release, shuddering, all over his hand. 

Henry lets him go; Alexander’s legs fail him and he slides gracelessly back onto his knees. And still - still! - he grips the tie and keeps his jaw hinged open obediently, even though it must be genuinely hard to breathe now with all of the fluid in his mouth and his nose blocked up from crying. What a marvel he is. 

Henry does not know what frightens him more - the idea that he might one day find Alexander’s limit, or that he will push and push and never reach an uncrossable line. 

He masks his profound fondness by wiping his fouled hand in Alexander’s hair to clean it. 

“My tie, boy,” he orders.

And finally Alexander permits himself to relent, and unclenches his hand, and carefully unwinds the tie before handing it over. It is fouled with semen and sweat, but Henry is not in the least bit upset about that. There is a little red line across Alexander's throat, but it doesn’t look abraded. Just as well.

“Thank you, my boy,” he says, and without further ceremony he leaves, knowing that Alexander will never realise even a hundredth of the things he means when he says this.

He has _so_ much to thank Alexander for. His mouth and his thighs and his sensitive skin, of course; his wide eager eyes, and bottomless appetite for shame that urges Henry to new highs - or lows. The games he so willingly indulges in. The way Alexander makes him feel both younger and more responsible. How Alexander has thawed him, despite what both of them intended.

And he thanks Alexander for the way he has transformed Jack, too - for showing Jack how to put steel into his spine, to act with care and wisdom, to be kind and fair without being naive. Things that Henry never quite managed to instil. 

Oh, Alexander. His beautiful enigma of pride and vulnerability, stubbornness and surrender. 

He indulges in Alexander more than ever during that visit, and every time feels like Henry moves further from the feeling of _enough_ that he realises he is chasing. He is a lost man in the desert; he will never drink his fill of Alexander.

So, inevitably, the instant the front door closes behind his boys again, Henry knows he cannot wait all the months until their next planned visit. 

He has plenty of reasons to travel to New York. He’ll need to get Jack out of the way, somehow, but he will think of something. He might be a fool - Ellie laughs in his mind again, fond but damning - but he is certain that he can engineer this without showing his hand. Without showing how much he needs this. Without revealing _his_ insatiable itch.

The silence of the house rests heavily on his shoulders. He bears it, somehow.


End file.
